Blasphemy [Finan the Agile]

CHAPTER ii. 'A Feast Among Heroes'

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CHAPTER ii. 'A Feast Among Heroes'

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           The Vikings of Dunholm saw fit to torment the woman they began to call the "Irish princess." Though, fortunately, they did not touch her, for Vikar threatened to cut off any man's hand if they were to stain the porcelain skin of his Linnasburgh prize. Skjord even quit his incessant need to summon her every night, and plough her until he tired himself out; the mix of scandinavian women in this Viking-conquered town seemed to suffice better than the venom-tongued Irland girl that made no need to voice pleasure amidst their nightly meetings. So, as moons passed and the weather chilled from its Northumbrian summer heat, Freydis grew accustomed to being a simple slave alike the Welsh woman, and numerous other conquered townsfolk of the Dunholm capital.

Freydis' cell was quite large, constructed of rotted cedarwood and finely-sharpened iron bars that divided herself from her Danish guards Alfgier, and Ogna. Alfgier was a short man compared to the other Vikings of Dunholm, but he was built entirely of muscle mass and broken scarred tissue. Ogna, Freydis learned, was his sister–they were unbelievably alike; short and wide with muscletone. Freydis surmised Ogna was only ajoined by her brother to ensure he did not abuse his power as her cellkeeper, nonetheless, the two guards were fun to torment. Especially when it meant they could do nothing but comply with her daily needs of a washbucket, breadloaves, and water.

As Freydis rested in her high pile of fresh swine straw, she listened to the conversation amidst the brother and sister. "Drink no ale, brother," Ogna told her brother, "Vikar forbids it."

Alfgier, otherwise, took a swig of his horn of ale, "Vikar is not my Earl."

"Our Earl," Ogna sassed, "commands we listen to Vikar!"

"Will you snitch on me, sister?"

Ogna groaned, "I won't, but if Ragnar finds out you are disobeying his orders he will have your cock."

"You listen to the Irish whore ample, Ogna," Alfgier scoffed, "do not fall for her Celtic threats."

Freydis lips curled into the slightest of a smile, she pulled her arms from the sleeves of her tunic and wrapped them against her stomach for warmth. She had worked the early morning refilling ale, and cleaning tables for the Scandinavians eating breakfast within the pagan halls, then she spent the afternoon shovelling horse turds and piss aside the Welsh woman and a long-served Dunholm slave. When Vikar found Freydis' scent uncoming, she was allowed to wash in the nearby creek under supervision. Whilst most  women had furs and leathers to coddle themselves into for warmth post-wash, Freydis had her own dirtied tunic, and pile of straw if she saw fit to cover herself in it. She did try that one of the first nights, and was left picking straw out of her hair and clothes for the next moons to come.